Lullaby
by Luc Court
Summary: RahXephon fic. SPOILERS for the entire series. A look at the interactions between Sayoko Nanamori and Itsuki Kisaragi, and a possible reason for their behaviors. Finished.
1. Default Chapter

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Author's Note: SPOILERS for the entire RahXephon series, including the last episode. This started as a quick fic to deal with the character I didn't sympathize with at all--namely, Sayoko. I decided to explore a possible explanation for her behaviors, the way Itsuki interacts with her, and also the Foundation itself. 

Then what was going to be a quick fic expanded into chapters. There's more coming. If you're interested in these kinds of looks at behavioral interactions, stay tuned.

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Lullaby

At first Itsuki hadn't known what to do with his gift from the Foundation.

"She's model version 7.34. Take pity on her." And Helena had smiled that viper-cold sadism, blue eyes drinking in Itsuki's discomfort. "That _is_ what you most enjoy doing, isn't it?"

To which Itsuki had only the reply of the softest of laughs; apology mixed with a rather deeply-buried anger for the jibe. Obvious to those who knew him, which included Helena, but out of respect for old acquaintances he hadn't said his thoughts out loud.

Version 7.34 had been delivered to the Kisaragi residence with little more than the clothes on her back. She'd been obviously disconcerted, stumbling around while keeping her limbs close to her body lest they come in contact with anything unexpected. Her arms were held up to her chest with the hands couched like a crippled ape. Typical for someone newly decanted from the labs; in an instant of observation, Itsuki had determined that she'd been a subject of accelerated growth rather than simply adapted for assistant's work when it was discovered she'd be unsuitable for her original intended purpose.

Two rejects they both were, then. Left together. Much later after Helena had departed and he'd had the opportunity to fully mull the situation over, Itsuki had decided he didn't like the joke.

He'd introduced her to the concept of pants at first. Version 7.34 had only a shift when she'd been delivered, which was adequate in the balmy climate of Nirai-Kanai, but hardly served as permanent summerwear. She'd struggled into his clothes with the pants on backwards and the shirt half-buttoned. This after several minutes of poking her head out his bedroom door to check on his appearance before ducking back to try and mimic it with her own, so Itsuki had eventually just helped her do it himself.

They'd gone shopping afterwards for things that she could own. Version 7.34 had first noticed the mannequins in the windows and had marveled over their smooth identical faces, their permanently articulated limbs that copied one another in perfect repetition down city blocks. Then she had realized that they were wearing different styles of clothes and that had captured her attention so completely that they both spent the rest of the day with her modeling on slacks and dresses, coats and shawls; springing out from the changing rooms like a series of mannequins all to herself, copied ten thousand times save for the accessories.

During the process of driving her around the shops of Nirai-Kanai, he'd acquired the knowledge that Version 7.34 had been designated as Sayoko Nanamori. She was considered aged to 28 years. Like many of those who had spent extended time in the laboratory vials, Sayoko had been adjusted to retain no memory of her birth. She'd eagerly repeated the same fuzzy details of a falsified father and brother when he first mentioned his own relative, matching Itsuki's commentary of Quon with her own theoretical experiences. 

Itsuki had let her talk. Sayoko had created and discarded whole tales from the sparse hints the Foundation had loaded into her installation, settling into a comfortable enough fabricated past that the holes didn't jar her nearly as much as they could have. 

In time, she would not even remember the first days with the Kisaragis, and would always believe she had moved to the island to avoid an overbearing--but well-meaning--father and a brother who liked to indulge in karaoke whilst in the bath. She had had an average school career while always hoping for more, enjoyed sports such as tennis, and had the worst problem keeping her hair from tangles in all this island humidity.

She liked fish. At least, she thought she liked fish. Also, she hated lizards. 

Maybe.

Everything in the city of Kanai had fascinated her. She'd reached out and run her fingers along the steering wheel of the car when he'd had it set in motion. Itsuki had automatically twitched his hand in a useless attempt to get the controls out of her reach, and had instead caused the vehicle to swerve. That succeeded in keeping her from trying to play with it while he was operating the engine. After they had come to a section of the road with a suitable breakdown lane to pull over on, Itsuki had set the car in park and tried to get her to uncover her hands from a face stricken with embarrassment.

"I can teach you how to drive, if you'd like," he had offered to her by way of apology, and Sayoko had looked towards him with an expression of shocked delight.

"Really?" she'd chimed back, breathily delighted. "I'll drive you everywhere, just watch. I'll be the best driver on the road."

Itsuki had smiled as best he could through his awkward discomfort. 

He couldn't say he appreciated Helena's fostering of a newly-hatched model to his doorstep. It wasn't that he minded having a chance to help someone discarded by the Foundation--quite the opposite, really. That organization mangled far more than was healthy, did not grant freedom to those who failed their tutorials. It only managed to persist through the centuries because it tolerated the reapplication of its creations to more suitable roles. 

Their patriarch's benevolent cruelty allowed for everyone to have a second chance to win his doting approval. If you failed the second, you could have a third. Expectations lowered each time, however, until the occupation you were determined most compatible with was that of raw meat. Lab technicians would finally cluck their tongues over your body while marking down your genetic tags. 

Then your structure, type, and version would be filed under M, for Mistake.

Itsuki's work with Dolem Arias was meant to compensate for his own lack of achievements. He had found his Ixtil in a human before he'd awakened to the transcendent, and so he'd provided a valuable lesson to the Foundation; don't let your Ollin be exposed to the human world for any great length of time, not unless you wanted your Ollin to imprint upon the wrong object of affection. Don't allow your Ollin freedom of choice. Limit your variables, or you will have an Itsuki Result.

Years later, when Itsuki had been entrusted with Quon, he'd belatedly tried to correct his error by doting as much of his heart upon her as possible. 

It had been too late. His ears were filled with the noise of the human world by then, and no matter how hard Itsuki tried to hear the heartbeat of the world in Quon's own breath, there existed only sighs. They were not like Haruka's. Sometimes he could confuse the two, but it wasn't good enough.

Bahbem had been patient with him regardless. So long as the doctor maintained his readjusted duties, Itsuki knew that faint approval was earned. The Founder played the part of the indulgent father with his many creations--indulgent even when those same beings tested the limits of their leashes. Even Makoto had been allowed to pursue a field that was more suited for his aggression, rather than being registered as one of the usual obedient soldiers of the mass production models. 

None of them _cared for_ Bahbem. 

He was simply the only law they knew.

Which made it all the more awkward to find Version 7.34 left to follow _him_ around rather than their mutual master. Itsuki was no trainer. He was not reared with the proper skills to be a suitable tutor for future generations produced by the Foundation; he served his purpose as being an _example_, an experiment concluded which described the corrosive influences of the human world. An experiment could always prove useful despite the initial results.

Because of inherited talents, Itsuki could continue to add to the volumes of research that the Foundation built its advances upon. Should his twin also fail and be lost in combat, Itsuki was the reserve for the male genome structure that would usher in their improved descendents. It was not a legacy to be ashamed of. Bahbem had lectured him as much on the day that Itsuki had been handed the packet of falsified credentials along with a last name. 

An unawakened Ollin was also the safest company to keep possession of Quon. Itsuki was flawed. His heart returned again and again to the human no matter how many times he chased the Mu-dream branded on his stomach, but he was still the most neutral influence that the Foundation retained.

__

These were his duties. Being a figurehead was not; being an instructor that anyone sought praise from was most _definately_ not, and it made Itsuki fidget all through lunch when he'd introduced Version 7.34 to the concept of sandwiches.

The doctor did not understand why he had been given someone so untempered by the Foundation's maturation programs. No documentation had been delivered along with the gift, no operating manual that would shed light on either Version 7.34's original purpose or her reassigned. Eventually he decided that Helena had only decided to play a cruel jest; she had recovered subject matter that was meant to have been deconstructed and then dropped it on Itsuki to remind him daily of the past. 

Helena never did understand his tolerance of C's and below.

But she enjoyed mocking them, and him, and Itsuki usually allowed it so long as others weren't involved too directly. Helena was family in a twisted way, just like Makoto and their Trainer and even Bahbem himself. All united through their common bond of being tampered with and built for a purpose, or at least recycled into one.

And now, Sayoko.

No one escaped the touch of the Master. Whatever Helena's pettiness with Version 7.34 was, it could not have been approved without Bahbem. Itsuki could not rightfully send Sayoko away without knowing it would be registered as a failure on the newborn's part. Her fate afterwards could be far less pleasant than Nirai-Kanai. The Foundation claimed its punishments were stern, yet loving, but that only made them all the more cruel.

So instead, Itsuki taught her how to butter the bread before you tucked it in the toaster oven, and tried to ignore when she asked if she'd done it wrong. Afterwards, they'd made tea to drink on the veranda. Sayoko had splashed the liquid from blowing on it too enthusiastically to cool it, so Itsuki had mopped up the spill while promising her that it was only water in the end.

Her expression had revealed that such an answer bothered her. 

Reaching for the sugar bowl, she had then dumped in five spoons before stirring and drinking it all in one gulp.


	2. Chapter 2

What bothered Itsuki most about the whole business was blatancy of Version 7.34's imprinting.

It was like watching someone try on their own skin so they could model it before you rather than something decently mundane, like lingerie. The process reminded Itsuki uncomfortably of his own childhood; yet he was no Bahbem, no god-father that a person should crave affection from, and simultaneously hate.

Yet Sayoko kept adjusting herself, the way she would tilt her head. The turn of her wrists. The precise timbre of her laugh. He told her that any of her choices were perfectly adequate and this did not suit her, so instead she'd begun to devise ideas of his preferences so that she could chase _those_ down instead.

Helena knew that it wasn't in his nature to dominate others, and so Itsuki's only option was to do nothing at all to encourage Version 7.34 one way or the other.

Even so, he knew that he couldn't avoid Sayoko's absorption of his habits. She studied the way he took his coffee and then claimed it for her own, professing that she'd _always_ hated too much sugar, _always_ loved a little extra cream. When Itsuki expressed mild frustration with one field researcher, he found her openly railing about the man the next day. Any pleasure he expressed, she leapt on tenfold, and that which caused him irritation was branded in her opinion.

One day he came across Haruka while on the hunt for shoes that Sayoko was trying to redefine herself through. Introductions had been easy. Haruka's enthusiasm and open-faced demeanor had always been one of her most attractive qualities, and she had launched into the meeting with eager bravado.

"So _this_ is where you've been, Itsuki." This meaning Sayoko, from Haruka's wave. "I'm surprised to see you out during such great weather. It's sunbathing season, don't you know. Not that I'd expect _you_ to remember with all your research." Cue forceful nod. Then she turned to Sayoko. "Is he showing you a good time? Oh! Pardon my manners, what's your name?"

Pulling her hands defensively before her, Version 7.34 held her ground against Haruka's aggressive cheerfulness. "It's... it's Sayoko Nanamori. I'm... pleased to meet you."

"Mine's Haruka Shitow." Conspiratorially, she leaned forward to Sayoko and shielded her mouth with a hand. "If he gets too boring, tell him you've got to meet up with me for drinks, okay?"

"She's newly arrived to Nirai-Kanai." Itsuki's interjection earned him a place back in the conversation. "You'll be gentle to her," he added with a smile that was only an excuse to look at the dark-haired woman, "won't you, Haruka?" 

True to form, Haruka had shot him a brief glare. But to Sayoko, she delivered only a beam. "Of course! I always enjoy meeting new friends." Two fingers darted up to her brow so that she could perform a jaunty salute. 

Sayoko had smiled nervously. The flickered expression showed teeth just at the corners of her mouth, shadows of primal aggression long evolved into social politeness.

They had watched her go in silence afterwards. The crowd rustled around them both; Itsuki with his face completely silent, and Sayoko's lips faintly pursed. Haruka had a habit of bouncing her weight from heel to heel when she thought no one was looking directly at her, and the doctor's eyes had been sharp to track the progress of the woman's wanderings away.

"I think I liked her better with her hair long," Itsuki had mused aloud at last, and then turned to resume their search for Version 7.34's footwear.

It was weeks later when he realized that Sayoko was growing hers out that Itsuki realized his mistake in expressing a preference. By then, it was too late. He had teased Sayoko as deftly as he could about how long hair was only more trouble to take care of, gesturing to his own ponytail, but Version 7.34 had learned how to laugh by then and only imitated his jests back.

The restraint of inaction was crippling. 

Each time she performed, Sayoko would turn her eyes unconsciously towards him in hope of approval, and Itsuki would smile in as neutral a manner as he could before returning to the displayed reports. 

Pretending she didn't exist would be a cruelty. Willfully guiding her into a slavish devotion to him would be worse, the doctor decided. 

The rationale sounded better with a glass of wine in his stomach and another on its way to join.

He'd made Sayako his housekeeper at first in some awkward manner of arrangement that involved her staying at the Kisaragi residence because Itsuki had no idea where else to put her. The act had been generated from a lingering sympathy that Itsuki had tried to quell when he'd realized what the emotion was; Helena had been right in calling it pity, he'd feared, but he didn't know what else to do. 

It was natural to have sympathy for being another creature of the laboratories that cast out so many iterations with product codes instead of names. It was natural, and it was also dangerous.

Bahbem, Itsuki had decided long ago, was a botanist at heart. He loved pinning down his new discoveries with all the pride of a collector wanting all mutations properly popped through the killing jar into their labeled drawers. Occasionally, he let his pets run with long tethers before whistling them back, but the leashes were ever-present. Not being able to see them did not mean they were not there. 

Somewhere in all those drawers there would be a place for the doctor as well, once he'd passed his prime or perhaps right when he'd be entering more of it. Advanced copy of an Ollin Instrumentalist, B class. Aged however many years before they clapped an ether-soaked cloth over his mouth if they decided to come upon him in the middle of the night, or possibly they would summon him with a polite demand that he roll up his sleeve for the injection that would kill him. Itsuki could honestly prefer the latter. Injuries might occur to the specimen if it was surprised unawares.

Was Sayoko meant to be his collar? Or was she meant to be his predetermined death?

Quon's dislike of Version 7.34 had put an end to that brief tenure of domesticity. Itsuki had taught himself how to read his self-appointed sister as one might gauge a piece of music midway through playing, estimating how many notes remained by how intense the current instruments were being wrung. Quon had glanced at Sayoko only once before looking away. When Sayoko had started trying to talk pleasantly to Quon in a clumsy attempt to break the ice, the flower-haired girl had seated herself at the piano and struck the keys for hours to drown out the noise of speech.

The excuse that Itsuki had presented to his gift had been one intended to save face. His sister was used to having a house silent, he'd told Version 7.34. His sister was not familiar with company inside the house she usually practiced in, his sister had strange habits. Again and again, _his sister_, and Itsuki had smiled with a bland, apologetic enthusiasm through the lies.

In truth, Itsuki was not certain of what he could do with both his charges. There was no doubt in his mind of which would hold dominance--Quon was and always would be the highest priority in all the doctor's work. That which discomforted his sister was regrettable, but could not be harbored for long. 

Sayoko was also a gift that had been delivered by Helena. Signed off from the Foundation, true, but Itsuki tended to distrust anything that put such a smile on that woman's face. Helena had looked far too smug when she'd dropped Version 7.34 off. That did not bode well.

Eventually, determining that Sayoko could be either a complex ruse or simply a taunt, Itsuki came to a compromise. Abandoning his gift would have been rude to all parties involved. If the trap centered around cruelty, then being overly fearful of Version 7.34 would be falling just as deep into Helena's plans as if he indulged Sayoko with pity in truth.

There was no perfect option. Either he could make the attempt to trust the gift despite the way she had arrived wrapped on his doorstep, or he could reject her solely based on her origins. 

Having two sisters was not as difficult an onus to bear, he finally decided. Certainly, Sayoko was nothing like having to grow up with Helena. It might be that all three of them could live a balance on Nirai-Kanai quite pleasantly before the Foundation beckoned them back home.

Besides. Family was family. That's what they were made for, and only Bahbem knew in the end. Itsuki was a poor imitation of the Founder, but he already knew that being a cheap copy was his own reason for being.

Performing his personal sheet music again and again never made it sound any better. But not every piece was allowed to hold the opening act. Some were allowed to exist only so that they could herald in the better parts, hint at the true crescendo, and in that Itsuki took his peace while he watched Sayoko learn to balance on high heels.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you going to breed with her?"

"I'm going to pretend I never heard you say that," Itsuki replied, taking the bottle of Perrier into his hand and topping off both glasses. "Just for my own peace of mind."

The arrival of Makoto to inspect the foundling had been unavoidable. Though Isshiki had predictably delayed his visit until well after any miasma of Helena had evaporated, it had only been a matter of time before the other member of their childhood trio had made a magi's visit. Instead of myrrh, Makoto had purchased champagne. That was fitting; Helena hadn't even brought biscuits.

It was red wine that suited the doctor's fancy most, though he never shirked a blush while in private. The mix of sweeter reds with dry whites tasted best when it resembled Quon's hair. Champagne of Makoto's preferences were pale draughts by comparison, sickly colors like that of river-gold shining its flecks through silt water. They would inevitably remind the doctor of Makoto's eyes for all that they were never half as grey.

Itsuki never liked the bubbles. He drank champagne to honor the preferences of his company, and because it made Makoto calm when he did.

"Anyway," the doctor had added reasonably in elongated afterthought, sliding into the chair across from Makoto once he'd placed the bottle on the shelf with the others. "You know I'm not cleared to reproduce at this point in time."

His words earned a snort, a scoff of a laugh. "At least you _have_ the option." Makoto, like all Ds, was predetermined sterile. "I don't think even Helena was allowed fertility."

True enough. "That's probably for the best. She reminds me of the type who would eat her young."

Talk of parentage had never resolved itself to comfortable, not even when the years had gentled out memory of mud. It made Itsuki uneasy to have to dwell upon it. Makoto always became unpredictable over certain topics, anxious. Tense.

Then things tended to get messy.

"Maybe they should have revoked relationships permissions from you too," Makoto observed. His commentary was as dry as a snake's sheddings. "Do you ever wonder if you might have succeeded as an Ollin if you hadn't been allowed to date freely? Or did they already consider you a lost cause by then?" Spider's fingers had reached out and spindled themselves around the doctor's wrist where he had it perched on the fluted stem of the champagne glass; Makoto tugged Itsuki's hand down to the table with the same ease of a farmer sexing a goose. "Does that ever bother you to think about it like that?"

"No," Itsuki had lied. Pleasantly.

The undercarriage of Itsuki's wrist always fascinated Makoto. Fingertips traced again and again over the ridges of tendon and faint rivers of blood--blue, so long as you never exposed it to oxygen. Blue, which was only a lie for Itsuki and made his skin twitch when Makoto kept stroking a thumb across the nerves. 

Blue, which was everything the doctor was not. Pretending that a beast magical slept in your veins only lasted so long as you never cut them open to test. You could stare longingly all you wanted, but in the process of reaching for reality, the creature would vanish and there would only be rose-blossom shades seeping down your arm.

"I was thrown away before either of you." Makoto's cold, meditative mumble was rote. "No one cares about _me,_ just as long as I follow orders." He leaned forward until he was reciting into Ishiki's palm. "But I'll make them regret it."

"Makoto," Itsuki had started, attempting to pull himself away from the heat of the other's breath.

The white-haired D ignored him. "I'll make them regret throwing _anything_ away." Tilting his face back up from where he'd been whispering to the doctor's thumb, Makoto allowed a look of hard hate to stray upon Itsuki. "That includes you."

"I _have_ a purpose." Tension made the doctor's voice sharp. Cold. It was an inelegant means of trying to bully his companion off his wrist, but Itsuki was not well-acquainted with brute methods of force. He also was not sure where Makoto was categorizing him, whether as enemy or mere object. "Taking care of Quon and translating the arias is all I nee--ah!"

Pain shot in a fever's flare. Flesh protested the teeth clamped down upon it and triggered instinct. Itsuki jerked his arm away, struck the champagne glass by accident and sent it flying. 

Liquid leapt free, soaring in a dolphin's arc across the table and presumably all over the ground as well; Itsuki heard the temple chimes of the glass shattering itself gaily on his floor. 

Damn.

Rubbing his fingers over the slug-trail of spit left behind by Makoto's mouth, the doctor nursed the wound behind thoughts of practicality. This wouldn't be the first piece of his diningware that the D had broken on him, but Itsuki hated contacting the Foundation for more.

He'd have to make sure to get the shards all swept up. The last thing he'd want is Quon cutting herself on them, with the way she'd walk barefoot through the house or even forgetting clothes entirely. 

"I thought I tasted blood." Makoto wouldn't leave the matter alone, voice twisting itself into a predator's lilting tease. "Is it red? Let me see."

Itsuki kept two fingers pressed over his own pulse. "No." He'd refused to elaborate further, only guarding his hand against his body until the impressions of Makoto's canines stopped humming with pain.

"You taste like apples, Itsuki."

The doctor refused to look at the thing sharing the table with him. Instead he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, counting off rows of bottles along the way.

"Do you remember that time when we were young, and snuck down to the kitchens?" The words were spoken with only the thinnest relation to the conversation; Itsuki conjured the memory for himself out of desperate scrabblings of the past. "When Teacher had brought back all kinds of fruits from his trip? And we were supposed to only get them if we did well on our choir test, except that I'd had a sore throat and Helena kept teasing us that she'd get them and share none with us…" 

A fumble, then, in trying to recollect the exact sequence of events. Recovery. Itsuki continued. "So we decided to get down there first in the middle of the night. Remember that?" Repetition of words intended to fill in the holes, the lapses in personality development that had bubbled into thick mounds of scar tissue over the years into maturation. 

"We only had enough time to grab just a few pieces." It was hard to try and laugh. Itsuki did anyway. "Then we almost got caught trying to recover the grapes when we dropped them on the stairs. But we had apples for... three nights, was it? We ate them out on the window balcony so Helena wouldn't catch us and we could drop the cores into the bushes below. Those were some of the best apples I think I've ever had."

Silence was all that met his ears. Itsuki counted down the seconds in timed thumps of his own heartbeat against his fingers.

"Yes. Yes, I remember that."

The madness of flawed imprinting passed. Makoto was left behind, quiet. Subdued. The D searched in his pocket for a handkerchief, and covered one of the champagne puddles with it, soaking up the evidence of his distemper. 

Itsuki pretended utmost interest with the color of the setting sun through the glass-paned walls.

It was Makoto who spoke first after that. "Helena's had hers forbidden. Her interactions, I should say." His knuckles shifted against themselves as he folded up the handcloth with the barest of movements and left it on the table. "You know they don't care about mine. Funny, isn't it--that it's Helena who's still important enough that she's kept restrained."

"I suppose being related to the Master by blood isn't such a good thing after all." Itsuki's reply was stated in a tone as perfectly calm as the sea. Vocalist's training did have some benefits.

The smell of fruit and alcohol began to congeal in the air. Itsuki thought about opening a window.

"Are you ever going to think about it?" Makoto was scrutinizing the side of one of his own fingers for callous-marks when he asked. The D never had mastered the pretense of being aloof, but Itsuki decided to act as if he was fooled.

"Hm?"

"Mating with your little Foundation present."

"Oh, you know me," Itsuki gritted out, inwardly wincing at the renewed pain when he tried to flex his injured hand. "I simply don't like paperwork."

Makoto had moved on to his nails then, exactingly careful to pick out any signs of dirt. "You're a terrible liar," the white-haired D had smirked, but he had let the conversation end there.


	4. Chapter 4

It was somewhere after the time that Itsuki had awkwardly shuffled Version 7.34 to being an assistant scientist that Sayoko had finally selected an automobile for herself. It had turned out to be a sports car, a vicious shade of red that reminded Itsuki of well-marketed violence when she'd driven it up to park in front of the Kisaragi house. There it had lingered like a stain while she had gestured enthusiastically to it, pointing out the detailing and features and the feel of new leather.

Here was her car. Would the doctor like to go for a drive with her?

The timing had been unfortunate. Quon had been complaining of shortness of breath earlier in the week, so Itsuki had confined his own business to the Kisaragi residence. While additions had been made to her life module that should have compensated, the doctor did not wish to be absent for even a second. Just in case.

Quon came first. Quon always came first, even when she lay back on her bed to stare out the glass ceiling of her room and refused to answer Itsuki's words with any of her own. He would watch her mind travel to a place he could not follow. Hours of this as the sky became the night became the dawn.

Eventually, he would get up, reach for the phone, and speak dull invitations of company into the dialtone.

Haruka never returned his calls.

Sayoko presented an escape from that. He knew it. She likely knew it, could smell it on him in the form of processed air lingering on his body and clothes. She could see it in how he winced against the volume of the island heat when he stepped outside. The world was bigger outside the birdcage of the Kisaragi residence; sometimes, Itsuki forgot this.

She repeated her invitation. He refused.

The smell of car exhaust lingered in his hair for hours. Sayoko had thrown herself into the car and taken off at such a speed that Itsuki thought he'd almost be hit before he could step away to a safe distance. Dust and grit kicked into his nose; the doctor had coughed as the blur of Sayoko's automobile ripped down the steep roads, and then absently sneezed.

That was the first sign of her rebellion against him. Her voice had tuned itself to a petty sulk for days after Itsuki rejoined the labs. Once he thought he caught her glare.

Eventually he gave in and requested a ride from her, which seemed to make peace between them, but Itsuki suspected the whole matter was far from settled.

It was as Itsuki had feared would come to pass; by receiving no standard to judge herself against, Sayoko had instead begun to look for ways to provoke him. She wanted a reaction. Bestowed with all the material goods of a fellow adult, Version 7.34 had determined that she was just as capable of playing wry, acting in control of a situation despite the reality.

Her becoming resentful with him was a thing Itsuki considered unavoidable. It was not forgivable on his part to know of such a consequence beforehand, and still allow it, but the only alternative he could think of would be to actively mold her like so much clay. Disregard the human creation, the human life; see only what can be turned to fit your fancy.

__

Thatwas a method more suited to Helena. Even Makoto might take more enjoyment out of manipulating people, but Itsuki's role was to be an example only. He was a living secondary. That was _his_duty, determined by Bahbem himself.

That and Quon.

To make up for any lingering tension between himself and his assistant, Itsuki suggested a visit to Kanai later together. Quon was feeling well enough that the man felt an afternoon could be spared with a minimum of fuss. Perhaps they could pick up something to send back to Sayoko's brother--a new CD that he could sing to, perhaps?

The reaction was far from what was intended. Sayoko immediately bit her lip, folded her eyes up with sudden tears. "How can you say such a thing, Doctor?" she choked. "You _know_my family…" The breath caught in her throat and she turned her face away hurriedly.

Itsuki attempted to mask his surprise. "I'm sorry. It's…" and he had stopped, not knowing what he had done wrong at all.

Later on, after he wound the story with care from Sayoko's lips, Itsuki discovered that her memory had branched itself. Like flesh growing around an abscess to envelop it, Version 7.34 had reacted to a quirk displeasing. Her mind bulged misshapenly. In order to avoid an issue too deeply buried to touch, Sayoko had preferred instead to kill off her imaginary family.

Itsuki was keenly aware that he was the stand-in for Version 7.34's male relatives.

So why, then, did she prefer to think of them dead?

He must have done something to scar her, Itsuki decided eventually one eve. The glass of Merlot agreed. Even without trying, a phrase delivered by the doctor must have lodged itself in Sayoko's mind and she had been forced to react around it with a fledgling's development.

The Foundation should have known better. Do not let your newborns near a failed Ollin, or you will have an Itsuki Result.

What had it been? What had he done in all his attempts to be nothing at all?

This troubled him so much that he called Helena.

He interrupted her in the middle of dinner, or so she said. The chink of a fork striking itself repeatedly against its plate kept time like a metronome. Itsuki could imagine Helena drumming it until the china broke in shards and was pulped into so much expensive dust.

It was her way of showing she was enjoying the conversation.

Her languid purr was blurred over the transmission line, but not nearly enough. "My, my, Itsuki. It seems as if you just don't know how to treat a lady."

"Helena," Itsuki had replied, vaguely vexed, fingers twining in the plastic curls of the phone cord. "Just tell me what it is I'm supposed to do with her."

"Why, whatever you'd like." Mock surprise filled Helena's voice, the superiority of her certainty cruel. "Haven't you thought of something yet? She's _your_gift. Don't tell me you don't know where to start with women, Itsuki. Though that would certainly explain _something,_" she sighed, setting down the fork with a distant _ting_so she could pause dramatically over a sip of water.

"I'm not calling you to review my personal mistakes, Helena."

"Are you sure? I could give you some pointers."

Itsuki hung up.

There were no orders. No ideas of what standards he was to measure up to by having Version 7.34 in his possession.

No ideas of how to keep from going wrong.

The position was one that Itsuki did not like. It was not what he was intended for. Itsuki was a B, a second-place Ollin, and his life as he preferred it involved one Quon, many arias, and a house by the bluest sea he could imagine. At times, Makoto would visit. Then Itsuki would place an order for more diningware.

It was a good routine. Itsuki had examined it many times in his thoughts, both with and without a full glass in his fingers, and he had determined that he served the Foundation more than adequately in such a role.

An error in calculations had placed Version 7.34 in his care. It must have been. No one in their right mind would assign even a throwaway to an Instrumentalist whose entire purpose of being was to play second-place. Doing so taught all the wrong lessons.

Sayoko was Helena's personal joke. That must have been the case.

How inconsiderate.

Having no other evidence to go on than Helena's bemused mockery, Itsuki kept Sayoko on as an assistant. He wondered on occasion if Version 7.34 was a model to replace himself in the care of Quon. Sayoko showed little talent for the arias; if the woman was meant to be a third-place Itsuki, then he might pity her indeed, Helena's opinion or no.

Time progressed. Nirai-Kanai ignored the changing of seasons except to give temperatures a token nod before tending to the brilliance of its ocean waves. Sayoko kept an apartment nearer to the city so that she could resort to the shopping districts; after a while, Itsuki heard that Haruka had become better acquainted with his assistant. They attended Kanai's okonomiyaki parlors together on occasion, sometimes going for rounds of drinks in the bargain.

Such an excursion reminded Ituski of his schooling years. When Sayoko noticed he spoke of the parlors with nostalgia, she promptly invited him to go with her when he next had a free evening. Itsuki declined on the claim of work unfinished. Undeterred, Version 7.34 brought in leftovers the next day for lunch.

"Haruka made this one, didn't she?" Itsuki commented as he picked at the fluffy batter with his chopsticks. It looked stuffed with mushrooms. Far too many mushrooms, combined with squid and something that smelled oddly like pickled plum. It was an eternal mystery how Haruka managed to smuggle in extra toppings. Never once when he'd dated her had he caught her in the act.

A wooden crunch came from the direction of his assistant. She had slammed her chopsticks on the countertop at an oblique angle and had snapped the ends of one.

"Haruka, _Haruka._Why do you have to think it comes from _her?_Just because she--"

The click of Sayoko's teeth shut off the rest of her speech. They looked at each other in mutual surprise for the outburst.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Dr. Kisaragi," Sayoko said after a time. "I... haven't been sleeping well." Slim fingers rubbed her temples with frustration. Sayoko was often careful not to grimace for any length of time, citing avoidance of wrinkles, so it was uncommon for Itsuki to see her in modes of self-expression. He inwardly suspected that the real cause was her imitation of his own mannerisms. A logical excuse had simply been slapped over the top.

Itsuki set his bowl down. Regardless of the card games played with their lives, he was admittedly concerned for Version 7.34's health. "Maybe it's your nerves," he suggested, neutral. Practical as kitchen raids and balconies smelling of champagne. "Have you thought about listening to music? That always does the trick for me. I would suggest music, in fact."

Violin. Piano. Quon's voice was enough to have Itsuki rest solid for hours, but he equated the two concepts to be one and the same in his mind.

"Like a lullaby?" Sayoko laughed. "I haven't had a lullaby sung to me since I was a little kid, Doctor. Not since... not since my mother," she frowned, closing her mouth as she tried to navigate the bumps in her memory. It had been a few years since her arrival, yet imperfections in Bahbem's work could linger in one form or another with some models.

"Oh?"

"It's so funny." She tried to recover quickly, the fluster in her voice evident when she made another brittle breathy laugh. "She used to sing this one particular one. I just can't remember the name right now. Give me a minute, I almost have it on the tip of my tongue, I'm _sure_..."

"Yes, your mother must have sung many to you," Itsuki soothed. "Well, no matter. It was only a suggestion. Why not try a hot bath instead?" The same sound that coaxed Makoto down from violent fits now plied the doctor's assistant. "You like hot baths, don't you, Nanamori?"

She surrendered to the voice of green apples. "Yes."


End file.
